?The same man that taught me to bury emotion, cried with my grandparents?? Travis said as he flipped through the next few pages of handwritten entries. There were words he couldn?t understand, but the longer he stared at them the clearer they became. Spells, learned, experiments, things that worked, and things that hadn?t. Everything came with a list of what happened when they had gone wrong.

January 23, 1982. Year of the Young.

At nearly four years old, Travis is showing signs of not only his mother?s gifts, but mine as well. Today, while playing in the snow he was able to shield himself briefly after growing tired of brushing the snow from his new wool coat. He is a very clean, and neat child, and after brushing snow from the dark cloth he watched me rolling another snowball. ?Enough.? He said as I tossed the projectile his way, and to my amazement it hit a shield I did not see, nearly a meter from his tiny body. I?m certain that he knew not what he?d done, but his mother sees things differently, she says that she hears his whispers in her mind and oft goes to check on our son, making certain of his safety.


Entries were scanned. Travis knew he?d read this book in its entirety, as well as other?s they?d found. There were dates that he wanted to read on, as well as the time after those dates to see what could be found. The truth is what he wanted, the truth is what he?d find.

July 3, 1985. Year of the Beast.

There is a rumor of a beast in the woods around the estate. It was first started by one of Travis?s friends. A young woman, though slightly older than he, said she?d seen a man covered in hair running away from something not far from their ?Fort.? Travis told me there?d been a deer, or what was left of it, but by the time we?d gotten there with rifles at the ready, the carcass had been dragged away.

This child that saw the man said he ran on two legs, but looked to have a wolf?s face. Normally I would pay no attention to such claims, but the girl isn?t given to flights of fantasy. She?s a well-educated young woman from the US, here living with her maternal grandparents, as her mother wishes her trained in our refined ways. Her father is some sort of athlete turned politician, and they travel this distance often to be with their daughter.
As there are not many younger children in this area of Sussex, She and Travis became fast friends. I?ve often thought of casting a spell of seeing, just to see if she would become the mother of my grandchildren, but my father told me the future is unwritten for a reason.

My mind works over the possibilities though. A werewolf. Here, after all this time had passed? It boggles the mind. Where did it come from? Who is the Alpha? Will it be another outbreak that I?ve heard of through my grandfather?s stories? I shall have to pay close attention to the children.


November 16, 1985. Year of the Beast.

Travis excels in his schoolwork. He is three grades ahead of his current level. He?s taken after his mother with the ability to retain everything he?s read, and I see him in my office reading books that even sometimes I cannot comprehend. He?s a very clever boy. Each afternoon, he rushes home finishes homework then begins with the questions about our teaching him to hone his skills. The challenge is not in teaching him, it is making him understand that he should not use the skills outside of family or ?safe? environs. While there?s not been a burning of a witch since Salem, I?ve no doubt that humans are still panicky creatures. I hope someday they can see us for who we are, not what the few can be. We are not unlike those from the Middle East, damned for the actions of the few.

Yesterday there was an attack on some hunters. They were at their camp, having decided to stay there through the weekend. They said they heard something they thought was a crying woman, as if in pain. When they braved a look, a beast attacked. They all lived, but have no accurate descriptions. They claimed it moved too fast to see, and tore through a camp of five armed hunters, all of which sustained some sort of injury. The colder months could mean trouble, but I remain vigilant.

October 25, 1990. Year of the Moon.

Several hours in surgery and a transfusion later, Travis is resting comfortably in his room. Friends and family have sent plants and a few get well wishes. Smythe is testing the blood, but it is too late as I know he?s infected. He?s carrying a fever of 38.3, sweat shines on his body and soaks the bed clothes. I?ve been asking around, and have made a few calls to some of the elders that may know a way to cure, or at least help him in some way. I wait impatiently, and think about a rumor I?ve heard of killing the original those infected by that blood stream are cured. I know she is not the original, and I do not want more danger coming to my family.

Liza has not left his side. She remains vigilant, wiping a cool cloth across his face, speaking to him in soothing tones and even singing the songs she always has. She is drained, but will not rest. We?d been talking about having another child, but now this? We couldn?t bring another into the home if we lose our first. I know families that have lost children, they carry them in memory, but have gone on to have large families. Liza would not cope well with this. Travis is her world. She dotes on him, brags of every accomplishment no matter the size, and tucks him in nightly after telling him stories of such wonderment. Princes, Dragons, Damsels. I oft think she?s missed her calling.

It is with a heavy heart that I try to sleep this night.

November 20, 1990. Year of the Moon.

It?s been nearly one month since the attack. Travis is showing no signs, save those of a growing young man. He eats like he will never see another meal, excels in his schooling and has even started asking questions about the fairer of sexes. You would think him fine, except when it comes to rugby, or at times of agitation and stress. He?s gone from meek into a dominant ?must win? player. He shows clear signs of being faster than the other chaps on his team, and Goddess be with anyone opposing his goal.

Yesterday in a particularly gruesome match with Angmering, there was a bloke about a head taller than my Travis, and maybe twenty-two kilos on him that would just doze over Travis?s teammates and took particular interest in Travis himself. It seems the lad had heard of Travis?s need to win, and thought he should be the one to teach him that losing is part of the game. Travis? mates got the ball to him, as their star player and while running, the bigger bloke came across field and shoved one of his own into my son?s path. I recall seeing him stumble, then go down, sliding on his stomach, only to be stopped by the other boy?s spikes. It was all I could do to stop Liza from nearly flying to our son?s side, but even over the crowd, I heard what sounded like a wounded animal as Travis leapt to his feet. I knew he was athletic, but that was an acrobatic move. His face was covered in blood and the medics as well as Ref were trying to stop him to check the extent of his injuries. I calmed Liza by telling her that I would go and check on him, and when I did, I saw the three-inch gash above his left eye, and his nose shifted to the left.

?Son, are you well enough to finish the game?? I asked as I held the gauze over his eye and felt, I swear to you I felt the wound stitching closed.
He nodded with no words uttered.
?Your nose?.? I started, only to have him, quite American-like, reach up and shove the cartilage back into place, and relatively straight.
?My nose is fine, Father.? I heard a man?s voice; deep and rich come from my son. It wasn?t a voice, it was a growl.
?Son, you must calm down.?
?Do I not look calm to you, Father?? He asked as he looked at me, his dark eyes seemed speckled in golden glitter. ?That fellow must be taught the rules of the game.?

My son patted my arm, and left me standing there with bloody gauze as he ran back to the field.
Angmering?s ball? which was soon enough ours, after movements too quick for the eye to see left the big bloke with an arm hanging at an unnatural angle, and what could best be described as a Chinese spare rib hanging out of his shin.

The crowd stared in horror at the scene as the match was won. Our side. Travis the hero. One young man that would never play again.

Tonight, Liza and I must talk.

November 13, 1991. Year of the Blood.

It has been almost one year since I?ve seen my son. Liza is so withdrawn she barely functions at all, only to reach out and stretch her power to aid in locating Travis. I?ve exhausted location spells that I know, and have traveled to the far reaches of the world to learn new, only to take a fool?s journey. It is as if Travis has been erased from existence.

The last time I spoke with Mister Roberts, I swore that I could hear screaming followed by an eruption of cheers. He asked for more money, and did not let me speak to my son. I?ve contacted authorities, here and in the United States, but other than a kidnapping with no ransom demands, I am uncertain what to tell them.
Yes, officer. I sent my werewolf son away to learn how to control his power, and to contain the beast.
I would be locked away in Bellington, after being tried for the murder of Travis. They would scour the estate and lands surrounding it looking for our son, only to find the few werewolves that I have dispatched, and then label me a monster, a serial killer.
I know this, as it is one future that Liza has seen and made me promise not to mention any more about our son than necessary to authorities.

I am assured that they are working diligently on the case, along with over ten thousand other missing children. I fear that we will never see him again, and Liza agrees.

I have one more chance, the correspondence with Mister Roberts is still in my desk. If there is some trace bit of that man, maybe they were not smart enough to ward him from location as they have worked so hard to do with my son. I will locate him, if he doesn?t give me back Travis? they won?t ever find his body.

Travis, Son, I am sorry. We love you.

January 6, 1992. Year of the Bear.


Charlie watched the boy through the thick steel bars. He rocked silently, staring at the wall.
"You've got to eat."
"Not hungry."
"Sin, you've got to eat. Keep your strength up."
"My name is Travis."
"Here you are the deadliest thing," Charlie cringed and spoke again. "Person they've seen, especially at your age. They say what I am doing is a sin."

The boy turned and stared at Charlie with bright, yellow eyes. "I said, my name is Travis." His voice was lower, and his speech was slurred just slightly. The first signs of changing.
Charlie had seen him change, more than a dozen times. The first few had sent him walking from the room. The way the boy screamed, the sounds of bones sliding, breaking and reforming into those of the beast had been too much and soured his stomach. Then, something changed. The boy no longer screamed, he smiled the whole time, a feral, hungry smile. He enjoyed the pain. He enjoyed the power.

"Sin, please?" Charlie said quietly, then found himself caught by the throat by a much larger, clawed hand from within the cage. He never even saw the beast move from the corner, and yet he found himself staring into the burning eyes.

"T-rr-Travis." He had to force the words through a throat not meant for speaking as he squeezed the older man's throat.

Charlie was fumbling in his pocket for the remote and could feel the vertebrae in his neck starting to shift as he pressed the button.

The beast howled in pain, and dropped him as hands went to the collar around his neck that glowed with a dull, blue luster. Charlie's own hands went to rub his neck while he watched his ward tear and jerk at the cause of his pain.

"I'm sorry, Sin?" He coughed and walked away from the cage before the sounds of the beast's pain were heard.